


Double Bluff

by kiev4am



Category: X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Team Bonding, by which I mean backchat and snark, dressing for the occasion, film noir references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiev4am/pseuds/kiev4am
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Layla throws a surprise party, noir style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Bluff

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for [joasakura](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura), inspired by and in thanks for this lovely [X-Factor Noir](http://joasakura.tumblr.com/post/32066755313/wip-x-factor-noir) drawing. It really deserves a slick noir AU of gunplay, vampishness and wit rather than the cobweb of dorkiness and references I came up with but hey, please accept fedoras in lieu of plot! (Also, dear lord but I'm appalled at how long it's taken me to finish this, wtaf kiev)
> 
> Nerd note: The celebratory dinner referenced here did actually happen. I searched all over the internet for information on where exactly it took place, but found nothing except that it was in LA, so I made something up.

Rictor shuffled back into the bedroom, wearing a sheet and scratching his hair. He was holding a note in one hand and peering at it with the aggrieved look of a caveman presented with a Kindle. "Wear me," he growled.

A red bed-head and a grin emerged from the blankets. "If I must."

Ric flapped the note. "Nahhh, it says that. 'Wear me.' S'Layla's writing. She's freakin' _Alice_ now." He scrunched the note into a ball and made a fuzzy attempt to drop-kick it, missed, tangled his foot in the sheet and hit the bed like a ton of bricks, cursing weakly while Shatterstar made the world's crappiest effort to stifle giggling. He had a terrible, Biblical, case-closed-karaoke-night, why-in-the-name-of-fuck-did-I-do-slammers, I-hate-Monet-but-I-hate-Longshot-more hangover. He poked weakly at the blankets where he thought 'Star's ribs should be. "Snotfunnyshutup."

'Star squeezed him and ruffled his hair in a way that was almost, but not quite, annoying. "'Wear me,'" he repeated. "That doesn't make sense. Wear who?"

Ric waved limply at the door. "Stuff. Hangin' up," he mumbled.

'Star threw off the bedclothes and hopped over him to the door, came back with two suit bags draped over his arm. He put them down, then fished for the note and smoothed it out. "There's a time here. Eight p.m."

Rictor scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Suuuure there is," he said hoarsely. "Fuckin' Layla. She can't just walk in and _tell_ us what she wants, nooooo, too boring. Well, whatever it is I'm not doing it, fuck it. I've got some very important dying to do here."

"Die another day," Layla said from the doorway.

"Gahh!" Ric yanked up the blankets and glared. "Dammit, Layla! They got this new thing now, it's called _knocking_." Typically, 'Star made no moves to cover up and just waved at her as if clothes (or blankets) were some kind of quaint Earth body modification he wasn't really adapted to.

Layla smiled. "You just complained that I was being too cryptic. So here I am," she said sweetly. "There's a thing. It's at eight p.m. and it's important; all-hands, saving-the-world important, so don't be late. There'll be a taxi here to pick you up."

"And we have to wear these clothes?" 'Star asked curiously. He'd unzipped one of the suit bags, and Ric's brain momentarily bluescreened at the sight of him wearing a shark-silver fedora with a black silk band, and nothing else.

Layla grinned, gave a big thumbs up, and disappeared.

*

"I feel like a dork," Ric groused, tugging his too-tight collar.

Rahne slapped his hand. "For the love o' God, leave yer tie alone. I'm not doing it _again_."

"I think you should wear that all the time," 'Star said earnestly. He'd been goggling at Ric like a lovestruck teenager ever since he'd finished getting dressed.

They were standing in the lobby of X-Factor HQ, shuffling like kids overdressed for a party. Under his discomfort, Rictor had to admit that both Rahne and Shatterstar looked a million dollars. For some reason, all Layla's bags had contained vintage 1930s-styled clothes, pressed and spotless yet clearly original. He wondered vaguely where she'd found them and how she'd guessed their sizes so accurately. Rahne wore a dark russet coat with a touch of fur at the collar over a sky-blue silk sheath dress that wouldn't have looked out of place on Rita Hayworth, and a broad-brimmed hat with a feather that matched the dress and made her look both wild and elegant at once. She'd muttered rude Scottish words about the fur, which wasn't fake; but she'd cooed over the pendant that came with her outfit, a diamante wolf's head on a silver chain. 'Star wore a tailored three-piece suit right out of _The Untouchables_ to match the silver fedora, with a dark grey shirt, black gloves, and a tie the same colour as his swords; against the sleek sheen of all this monochrome his hair burned glorious, technicolour red. Ric wasn't sure he'd ever seen 'Star in a suit before, much less a drop-dead George Raft number like this one, and it was thoroughly and wonderfully distracting.

He, on the other hand, felt like a two-bit B-movie hood, for all 'Star's flattery. His suit fit okay, he admitted grudgingly, and he _did_ like the colours (classy near-black green with a dark brown tie); his shirt had cufflinks made of tiny rocks of amber, and he felt a little weird for enjoying such a fancy detail. But the damn hat felt like it was slipping all the time, and the shoes pinched, and the starchy collar kept jabbing him in the throat. He yanked at it and Rahne slapped him again. "Would it've killed ye to shave?" she asked sourly.

"I did shave," he lied. Where the hell was Layla?

There was a clatter on the stairs, and the rest of the team appeared. "Woah," Ric said involuntarily. Terry had on a close-cut emerald-green skirt suit with gold shoes and gloves and a green pillbox hat perched jauntily on her beautifully pinned-up hair; Monet, looking both regal and furious, wore a full-length wine-red evening gown, long black velvet gloves, a black fur stole, and a tiara. Longshot's suit was a black and gold copy of Shatterstar's, right down to the fedora, except he'd already shrugged off the jacket and, with rolled-up sleeves, unfastened waistcoat and half-mast tie, was rocking it like a fully boozed-up member of the Rat Pack and, being Longshot, getting away with it. Behind him, muttering balefully, came Guido. He carried a black cane headed by a fist-sized chunk of carved ivory, and he was wearing the biggest, loudest swathe of mobster's pinstripe anybody had ever seen in their life. Suddenly, Ric felt a whole lot better. "Hey, Carosella!" he yelled. "Moose Malloy called, he wants his suit back!"

"Who ya callin' a moose, ya blork?" Guido scowled, shrugging irritably against the pull of the fabric. "Man, I can't believe I got sweet-talked inta this crap."

"You didn't get sweet-talked, you got press-ganged," Monet said calmly. "If I have to wear this ridiculous thrift-shop foolery then so does everybody else."

"You know what this is about, M?" Ric asked.

Monet tossed her mink, earrings flashing. "Normally, if it were important to Layla, I'd move heaven and earth to obstruct it, but today I may make an exception. I think I know what the little creep's up to. You would too, if you thought about it for five seconds."

"Huh?"

"The taxi's here," 'Star called from the door. He wasn't kidding. The 'taxi' was a gleaming black stretch limo the size of a small submarine. As they climbed in, Layla waved at them from the cosy corner where she was drinking champagne with a more-than-usually-beleagered-looking Jamie Madrox. He was wearing a trenchcoat – so far, so Jamie – but under it was an impeccably noir suit a shade lighter than Terry's, and on the back of his head sat a green fedora that looked like it had been waiting for Jamie all its life. Layla herself wore a violet dress with a swooping Roman neckline and a black jacket heavy with sequins, her pale hair kinked in vampish waves under a wide black hat, a little silver butterfly at her throat.

As the limo purred away from the kerb and Layla handed out champagne glasses Jamie said, "Okay, Layla, you got us all dressed up like extras from _Guys And Dolls_. Now are you gonna tell us where we're going, or what?"

Layla held up a finger, then carefully poured champagne for everybody. When the glasses were full, she leaned over and kissed him. "Happy birthday, Jamie."

Jamie looked baffled. "My birthday was last month."

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry it's late. It took me a little while to pull this together."

"And 'this' is...?"

Layla smiled. _Bette Davis eyes_ , Ric thought. "Call it a theme night," she said. "A... noir theme night."

"Oh, shit." Jamie started to laugh. "A noir theme night. Seriously?"

"Yep."

"And, what, you're telling me there's a _club_ for this?"

"Noir Anonymous," Layla said wickedly. "You like?"

"Are you kidding?" Jamie hugged her. He was grinning like a fool. Sometimes, Ric had to admit, the little creep got it right. Even if his collar _was_ killing him.

*

Monet looked around her at the club's interior. "Okay, this is special," she conceded. Rictor had to agree. It hadn't looked good from the outside – a dim little dive in a sidestreet with perfunctory neon and no bouncers and the _coldest_ damn lobby he had ever encountered set between the outer door and the club itself; so cold he'd gotten an ice-cream headache as Layla had shooed them through it. For a minute, the contrast with what lay beyond the shabby doors had struck them all speechless; it was, quite simply, the most spectacular stealth club any of them had ever seen, as glittering and opulent inside as it was wretched and anonymous outside. They must've knocked together three or four buildings in the street to make the barn-sized space of the ballroom. Everything was marble and mirrors and Art Deco ocean-liner curves; the bar was deep, shining mahogany and about as long as your average racetrack; the potted palm trees dotted about the pillars and tables were real, and the high gold ceilings blazed with chandeliers the size of cartwheels. The lower air was blue with cigarette smoke; they must have wormed around the city ban somehow. Down at the end, a jazz band was playing on a clamshell stage ringed with lights while a woman in a silver dress with a gardenia in her hair sang _These Foolish Things_ in a rich smoky-velvet voice and all around them people talked and drank and danced and smoked in flawless thirties clothing.

Automatically, everyone turned to look at Jamie. He was staring at the scene with his mouth open, wide-eyed and awestruck. "Holy crap," he said faintly.

Layla grinned and tucked her arm in his. They made their way to the bar, where Layla ordered whisky and cocktails. "My treat," she said.

As she handed money to the barman, Ric noticed something. Before she could close her purse, he shot out a hand and pulled out a bill. "This is old money," he said blankly. "Like, actual thirties money."

Layla plucked it from his fingers. "I told you this place was serious. Every detail accurate." She dug into her purse and passed everybody a brown envelope. "Pocket money. Don't spend it all at once. And don't be tempted to use your credit card – they get _very_ huffy about it."

Terry frowned. "How does that work? There's some kind of exchange here?"

Layla nodded. "All part of the service. You change new cash for old when you book," she said. "Sweet, huh?"

"Well, thank Christ they ain't takin' the Prohibition route," said Guido. He'd already drained his bourbon and was flagging down the barman for another. In a moment the detectives of X-Factor were piled up along the bar, glasses in hand, bickering and nudging with their usual cosy friction: Longshot flirting with a sequinned cigarette girl, Monet blowing Rahne's feather out of her eyes, Terry sipping soda and teasing Jamie, Layla nodding softly to the music, Shatterstar puzzling over a cocktail umbrella. Ric looked across the bar at their reflections and grinned. For a ragtag bunch of misfits, they scrubbed up okay.

The band launched into _Isn't It Romantic?_ and the dancefloor filled with dashing costumed couples. Guido knocked back a fresh drink, then turned the empty glass in the light as if he were measuring something. "That'll do it," he said quietly. Not quite facing anyone, he jerked a huge thumb over his shoulder and spoke loudly and casually to the bar taps. "Hey, M. Ya wanna dance?"

 _Ohhh_. In the mirror, Ric caught a Mexican wave of pre-emptive wincing as everyone braced for Monet's reply. As usual, she let a beat of silence go by before unleashing it. There was a crunch of beads as she tossed her purse on the bar and walked along to where Guido was standing, rock-still. Oh crap.

"I'd love to," she said.

With a slow _whaaaa?_ noise, like a balloon deflating, the team spun round with its collective mouth open as Monet propped her hand on Guido's arm and escorted him imperially out to the dancefloor. They joined hands and began to waltz, astonishingly graceful in spite of – or was it because of? – the size difference; other dancers made room for them, slowing to watch with amusement turning quickly to envy as they took in the way they moved together. Guido's face wore a grave smile, worlds away from his usual mugging. Feet hidden by the train of her gown, Monet danced on air.

"Well, _damn_ ," Ric said softly.

Longshot was spluttering. "Who knew Guido could dance? _I_ didn't know Guido could dance. Did _you_ know Guido could dance?"

Jamie looked at Layla. " _You_ knew."

She shrugged, poker-faced. Jamie looked at her for a moment, head to one side, then stuck out his elbow. She smiled, took his arm, and they sauntered out onto the parquet.

A sneaky arm hooked round Ric's waist and tugged. " _I_ want to dance," said Shatterstar.

" _Dude_..." Ric wormed free, pushing 'Star's wandering hand out of sight. "Even if I _could_ dance for shit, that's a terrible idea."

"Why?"

"Well – " Rictor paused, weighing his words. It'd taken him a while to see the difference between a room's real vibe and his own projected unease, but he was pretty good at it now, especially since his store of fucks to give was so much smaller than it had been in his youth. "Look at this place, 'Star. All the couples in here. You see any guys with guys, at all? Or girls with girls?"

Shatterstar scanned the room solemnly. "No," he said. "I don't think I do."

"Nope, me either. So I'm thinking maybe here isn't the, uh, friendliest place for you and me to dance or... y'know, anything. We don't want trouble."

"Who could give us trouble?" 'Star asked breezily. The sneaky arm was sneaking back. "We would simply hit them until they shut up. As they deserve."

Rictor grabbed 'Star's hand and parked it firmly on the bar. " _Normally_ , yeah. But Layla's put a lot of effort into this thing. I don't think we should mess it up with a bar fight. Not this time. Okay?"

"Oh, _fekt_." Shatterstar sighed, looking mournfully at the dancefloor. "I suppose you're right."

A green-nailed hand tapped 'Star smartly on the shoulder and Terry popped up beside him, smiling. "Tag," she said. "You're the one."

'Star grinned. "I'm _it_." It was a very old joke.

"C'mon," she said. "I'll dance with you. But step on my feet and you're dancing with Guido."

'Star's eyes lit up, and he took her hand. They looked splendid together, a pin-sharp double shot of noir redhead perfection, and Ric settled back against the bar to admire them, nursing his beer, chuckling as he watched Terry weather a Fred-and-Ginger twirl that was slightly too exuberant on 'Star's part. His version of old-school dancing wasn't so much _Farewell My Lovely_ as _Gold Diggers Of 1933_.

Rahne nudged him. "So where'd _he_ learn to dance, then?"

Ric swivelled his eyes and grinned unnervingly. "He saw it on the _television_." He was justly proud of his Jack-Nicholson-in- _The-Shining_ voice, and Rahne cackled.

"It's going to be a bumpy night," she said gleefully.

*

A few beers and bourbons later and Ric was in the zone, pleasantly bombed and starting to have wistful thoughts about fake-flaking-out on Shatterstar and being carried home. They'd all piled into a plush booth for dinner, a typically rowdy affair rife with trash-talk, bad jokes, war stories and ever-sillier toasts. Now the others were gambling their toy thirties money at the roulette tables and he was back at the bar, watching the room and wrestling with the stupid sense of doom that always seemed to come when he was genuinely happy.

"Psst, Ric. Hey." It always amused him when Guido attempted to sidle. He grinned widely and leaned back, a sleazeball _sooooooo, you 'n' Monet?_ all primed and ready to go – and then paused, because Guido had the wrong look on his face. He didn't look bashful, he looked worried; and not first-date worried, but oh-jeez-this-damn-team worried.

Ric straightened up. "Dude, what's wrong?"

"C'mon outside and look at somethin' with me."

"Okayyy..." Ric followed Guido through the sparkling crowds until they reached the doors. From this side they looked considerably bigger and grander than they had coming in. He could've sworn the lobby wasn't gold before, either, and something began to itch at the back of his mind as he trailed Guido through the second set of doors onto the street. As they emerged, his jaw dropped. They were standing on a stretch of silver pavement as wide as the deck of an ocean-liner, a velvet canopy propped on brass poles high above their heads. A doorman stood to attention beside them, respendent in white gloves and gold brocade.

Ric swung round, eyes on stalks. "This... wasn't..."

Guido grinned bleakly. "That's what I said. Check out the cars, dude."

"Cars...?" Ric paced the street, peering at parked limos and saloons. It didn't take long. Lincolns, Plymouths, Buicks, every one a million-dollar collector's piece, classic old soft-tops shimmering with chrome and upholstered in deep maroon leather, their bulging headlamps and sweeping fenders just begging for an all-night car chase – eighty years ago, in black and white. Ric ran his hand slowly along the roof of a Packard the colour of Walter Neff's conscience. He didn't like this. Not at all.

Guido tapped his arm. "It gets better." Rictor followed in a daze. At the end of the street the cars thinned out; towering palms lined a wide avenue, and above the whispering leaves rose a dark mass of hills dotted all over with lights. Guido pointed, but he needn't have. Halfway up, embedded in the hillside, city-glow flared starkly off the huge white letters of an American landmark.

"Oh my God."

"Ya get it now?" Damn him, Guido was chuckling.

"The sign – shit, the _sign_." Ric flailed. "They changed it. The 'LAND' part, they took that down. In friggin' _1949._ " His legs gave way and he flopped on the curb. Guido sank down beside him; Ric felt a nudge, looked down at a silver hip-flask the size of a roof tile. Without hesitation he wrung its neck and swigged until he coughed. "Layla," he said when he could.

"Yup."

*

Ric stomped past the doorman without a glance, fizzing with freaked-out indignation. He hadn't thought much beyond bawling _LAYLA!_ across the dancefloor; but he didn't have to. She was there in the lobby, so close that he nearly barged into her. "Nineteen thirty-six," she said briskly.

"Wha – ?"

"Nineteen thirty-six. That's the date, that's when we've travelled to. In case you were wondering. Now that you've worked it out, and all. I'll bet it was the Hollywood sign. It was, wasn't it?" Ric gaped at her, guns thoroughly spiked, as she hooked her arm through his and lugged him into the nightclub. "Come on, let's find Jamie. I'm sure you want to tell him. It's okay, it's time. I'll help."

"Layla, what the _fuck?_ "

She patted his arm. "You'll see."

They found the others at the deep end of the bar, perched on stools, playing a raucous drinking game with shots. Terry waved frantically at them. "Layla! C'mere, come and see." She pointed across the hall. "Look at that, will you. That guy looks just like Gary Cooper."

"That _is_ Gary Cooper," Ric said hollowly.

"What?"

"That _is_ Gary Cooper."

Jamie blinked. He looked like he'd been losing heavily – or was that winning? – at the drinking game. "What are you talking about?"

Layla edged up to him. She put her gloved hand on his arm, her mouth very small, her gaze hopeful rather than assured, and Ric realised with a jolt of surprise that the girl who knew stuff wasn't _quite_ sure how this part was going to play. "I did a thing," she said awkwardly. "For your birthday."

"A... thing?"

The butterfly necklace winked forlornly as Layla shifted from foot to foot. "When I said it was a noir theme night, I was sort of... lying. This – this is the real thing. We're really _here_. In the nineteen-thirties."

"Wait, _what?_ "

"You should put that on a t-shirt," Monet said dryly.

"I took us back in time," Layla said. Her voice dragged. "That door, in that street – it's just a derelict house. I had the entrance rigged, so when we went through..."

Jamie looked at her wildly. "You _time-travelled_ us? _All_ of us? How did – ?"

"Victor helped," Layla said cagily.

"Victor?" Rahne's eyes widened. "Victor _von Doom?_ "

"Oh my God." Madrox was starting to look as if he'd stumbled off a lose-your-lunch-or-your-money-back fairground ride. His eyes were haunted, his face pasty. "Layla. I have _got_ to get back. I appreciate the thought – I do, I really do, but – oh jeez, Layla, you above all should know I can't take any more time travel. I just _can't_." Ric actually felt a little sorry for Layla; she had all but chewed her lipstick off, and she looked like she was watching a car plunge off a bridge in slow-motion. Jamie tried to smile at her, to soften it, but it was a sorry, shaky thing and he couldn't hold it. "Layla. Please take me home. _Please_."

Layla swallowed, glanced back and forth around the bar as if searching for support. Then suddenly she smiled – so brilliantly and happily that Ric craned round, trying to see what on earth could've saved her so fast. Nothing to see but a couple of guys in quiet suits, ordering up their after-dinner drinks. "We can't go yet," she said softly. "You haven't opened your present."

Jamie looked blank. "Wasn't _this_ – ?"

Layla's eyes were shining. "No, my love, just the tinsel." She looked as noir as Ric had ever seen her, tricky and adoring and unfathomable all at once. She reached up, kissed Jamie's cheek, then took him by the shoulders and, very gently, turned him round to face the two men at the bar.

Jamie looked. Blinked. Did a double-take. "Oh my God." His hand clamped down on Layla's shoulder as if his knees had buckled, all the colour draining from his face. His voice came out as a strangled gasp. "Oh my _God_."

Ric frowned, sharing the others' bafflement. And then he got it.

They were nondescript at first, standing together with the stoic air of men who didn't know each other well. An odd couple, the shorter man urbane and professorial in thick round glasses, nursing a squat black pipe, the other rakish and stooping, an elegant crane of a man with stiff grey hair and hooded eyes, clutching his glass. They didn't _look_ like the twin pillars of anything, but Rictor – who knew his Marlowes and his Spades, even if he wasn't such a fanboy about it – gazed at them and felt a rush of something like awe.

"Hey!" said Longshot. "They look just like those two guys in Jamie's office. On the wall."

Layla leaned close to the poleaxed Jamie. "January eleventh, nineteen thirty-six," she whispered. "A banquet dinner for the writers of _Black Mask_ magazine. The one and only time these two men ever met, in all their lives. The only time when you could see them both, together. _Happy birthday, Jamie_."

Shatterstar prodded Ric in the ribs. "Who _are_ they?" he mouthed silently.

"Only Raymond Chandler and Dashiell freaking Hammett." Rictor found himself grinning like a loon. Impulsively he reached out and squeezed Layla's shoulder, gave her a wordless nod of admiration. Then he went over to Jamie, who was still making goldfish faces, and flung an arm around his neck. "Don't just stand there, Doghouse Reilly. Buy the gentlemen a drink." Then – shamelessly freeloading because shit, who wouldn't? – he shoved Jamie into wobbly motion and frogmarched him over to his idols.

Whatever Mr. Chandler or Mr. Hammett thought about the stuttering young man in green who shook both their hands violently and – though incoherent – seemed to revere them so much more than they were used to at that time, history would never tell. They accepted the drinks, and bore the man's frantic compliments with puzzled grace; and perhaps Mr. Chandler was too wise to dwell on it when the young man namedropped stories he hadn't, to the best of his knowledge, written yet. Rictor and Layla judged the moment, then steered Jamie off before he prostrated himself completely. He was eight miles high, jabbering about _Red Harvest_ and Vivian Sternwood, as they walked him through the shuddery cold of Layla's time-door and back to their waiting limo.

"Well, Miller, you little brat," Monet said, kicking off her shoes and propping her feet on Guido's knee. "I'd judge that a success if I were you." It was as close to warm and fuzzy as anyone had seen her in a long time. Guido hesitated, hiding behind his glasses, then rested one massive hand very lightly on her painted toes. She made no moves to shake it off.

Layla spirited fresh champagne from a compartment between her and Jamie. She had her hat back on and she was watching him carefully from under it as she handed him his glass. Jamie took it, downed it in one gulp and held it out for a refill with a hand that shook so much the fizz sloshed everywhere. He seemed to be grinning and hyperventilating at once. Layla reached over and put her hand on his madly tapping knee. "Are you okay?"

"I met Dashiell Hammett," Jamie said giddily. "I met Raymond fucking Chandler. Oh yeah, I'm okay." Flailing, he reached out and kissed her, knocking off the hat as the team exploded in cheers, wolf whistles and raspberries. "Thank you," he said when they finally broke apart. "I love my birthday present. Love it. Even if Doctor Doom _did_ help you buy it," he added wryly.

Layla beamed at him in rare, uncomplicated joy. "Then everything's all right," she said softly.

As the limo glided homeward, Rictor tipped his hat over his eyes and settled himself to doze on Shatterstar's shoulder. "Can we keep the clothes?" he asked sleepily. There was a murmur of support from Longshot and Terry.

Layla chuckled into her glass. "After you bitched about that collar all night?"

"I'm asking for a friend," he mumbled. 'Star really _did_ look awesome in that suit. Just to check, he deepened his slouch to steal a glance at him under the passing streetlights. To his surprise, 'Star was looking back. His eyes glittered in the darkness, and on his face was the inscrutable slightly off-key smile that usually preceded a bad joke or a good kiss.

"What?" Ric said hopefully.

'Star leaned down, his voice an unsubtle stage whisper. "Everything's not _really_ all right, you know."

"Whaddya mean?"

"You forgot about _me_."

"What's wrong with you?" As he said it the memory uncurled in his head; he heard the drawling echo of another, exalted voice saying the same words and knew, just too late, what he was setting up. Dammit.

Shatterstar grinned. _You did see a film once, didn't you?_ "Nothing you can't fix," he said smugly.

Just as intended, Jamie choked on his gulp of champagne. "Oh. You. Did. _NOT_."


End file.
